Thomas' Baby
by FairytalesOfForever
Summary: "She couldn't think a word against him, even when he was grounding her world beneath his heels. He was hers, her Thomas, the prince who had come to rescue her from what could barely be called life." Merope longed for beauty and joy, but when they left her life in the form of Thomas Riddle, she gave everything she had left to her son.


**A/N: The Houses Competition**

**Team: Snakes  
Class Subject: History of Magic (sub)  
Category: Standard  
Prompts: [Emotion] Heartbroken  
[Object] A love potion  
[Action] Ending a marriage arrangement**

**Word Count: 1048**

"You did _what _to me?"

Merope cradled her belly, which was already starting to swell. "I—you must understand—"

"That's exactly it," he snapped, his eyes beautiful even when blazing with rage. "I _do_ understand. I finally understand what you've been doing to me."

"No, you don't!" she cried. "You don't know—you don't really know—"

"I do," he said firmly, "even if I don't know how. It doesn't matter if I know how—I'm never letting you near me again."

"But I thought—I thought that by now—"

"What?" he demanded. "What, that whatever you've been _drugging_ me with might have seeped into my mind for good? You'd like that, wouldn't you? You wouldn't care about the life you were stealing from me."

She drew back at the word _drugging_, tears pricking at her eyes. Normally she would curse hormones for this—she'd learned not to cry long ago, when her father's fists chased away any sign of weakness—but now she couldn't. She had only herself to blame. She couldn't think a word against him, even when he was grounding her world beneath his heels. He was _hers_, her Thomas, the prince who had come to rescue her from what could barely be called life.

"Your child!" she cried, pleading. "What about your child? Won't you stay for our baby?"

"It's not _our_ baby," he said. His black eyes had become coals, burning with fury. "It's your parasite, and yours to deal with. If it has a father, it's _this_." He fumbled through a chest, anger making his movements hasty and aggressive, until he drew out a glass bottle filled with bright, swirling pink potion.

Merope pressed her hands protectively over her belly. "_Parasite_?"

"Yes," he said, "Parasite. It will leech your strength before it lives and your money after—not that you have much to begin with."

Merope jerked with every word as if he was stabbing a knife between her shoulders. It would have hurt less if his anger brought out an ugly side, a snarling animal with a twisted face, but no. He was still more work of art than human, as he had always been. The angles of his face were just as defined, his eyes just as piercing, the swoop of his raven hair just as daring and _perfect_. Even his hands spoke more than his words, eloquent and nimble and smooth as marble. Tears rolled down Merope's cheeks as the beauty she could never claim ripped itself away from her, tearing her heart with it piece by stabbing piece.

"The...the things you said," she stammered brokenly. "You called me beautiful. You said you loved me. You—"

"And you _believed_ it?" he sneered. Even his sneer was as handsome as his smile. "You, beautiful? I can't believe that even whatever _this_ is—" he gestured with the potion bottle "—could conjure that up. You're just a scrappy tramp, and as plain-looking a girl as I ever saw. What have you done to my reputation?"

A moan of despair escaped Merope's lips and she seemed to shrink. "No," she whispered. "No, please."

"I'd feel sorry for you if you hadn't taken everything from me," he said icily. "At least your face will be easy to forget."

Merope sobbed.

"You weak, foolish girl," he said. "This is what happens when you circumvent destiny. You were born alone and poor, and so you shall die."

Merope clutched at the front of his shirt. He pulled away, disgusted.

"Something is wrong—please—make it go back!" she pleaded.

"You mean drink more of _this?_" He thrust the potion bottle at her. "I'd rather have you kill me where I stand. And perhaps I should die—my parents will have disowned me for running off with _you,_ and my real love has surely married by now."

"No!" Merope cried, clutching the bottle with bone-white hands. "I love you, Thomas, I love you. This is your baby, and I'm going to wish for him to look like you. Please...maybe you can learn...we can…"

"No." His features were harsh and cold. "I don't love you. I never have. Perhaps I'm sorry you've been fooling yourself, but not enough for what it's done to me. I hope to never see you again."

Merope crumpled with a wail of grief, her arms hugging the skin that enclosed the last remnant of their love. "Please," she gasped. "I can't live without you."

"Well, then, I'm sorry," Thomas said. "Not for you, for the child, who should have never existed. This child will live alone and unloved, just like you, and he'll have you to blame."

He strode out and slammed the door behind him, blocking the sunlight and letting darkness flood Merope's vision.

oo0oo

Merope cracked her eyes open. Dim light surrounded her, and something soft lay beneath her head; she heard a voice to her left, echoing and faint, as if it were coming from very far away.

"It's a boy," said the voice, whomever it belonged to. "Beautiful and healthy."

"Unlike his mother," came a sympathetic murmur—lower, softer. "So much pain in such a short time—and she wasn't strong to start with. Is she awake?"

Merope summoned the strength to moan softly. She couldn't even lift her hands to reach for her baby, although her very soul bent towards him, desperate to see Thomas' son.

"It seems so," said the owner of the first voice. Her faded, distorted shape came into view, and she placed a warm, soft weight on Merope's chest.

Merope steeled her will and struggled to lift her head. She want to see her baby before she left him.

"Here," said the second woman, placing an extra pillow under her head. "Now, look. He's the most handsome little thing I ever saw."

Merope drank in the sight of her son, and she couldn't agree more. Already he had a tuft of his father's black hair, and he looked at her through dark eyes with a soul beyond his age. He seemed to be studying her, almost, with no interest in fussing like most babies would.

Merope smiled. Her wish had come true. The world was fading—it was enough, it would have to be. Darkness crept in on the edges of her vision, and she whispered three words with her last breath.

"Tom...Marvolo...Riddle."


End file.
